


A Day in the Life

by Ad_Absurdum



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, RPS - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As morning turns into noon, two young men tumble into bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A bit of an experiment and an exercise in writing: first person narrative and Morrissey's POV. Also, I somehow managed to write something that looks like an established relationship. I honestly have no idea how that happened.  
> Disclaimer: Never happened, all slander and lies.
> 
> * * *

I'm standing in front of his house, it's 11 in the morning - well, midmorning - and I'm wondering if he's already awake. He's never been an early riser (and at this point I can almost hear him making a truly atrocious joke about 'rising'), but even when we spend a night apart, mornings are usually quite an interesting affair, shall we say.

I let myself in, using the key he gave me a few months ago. The house would seem empty, except there's a quiet melody drifting from the upstairs. I head that way, impatient to see him.

I stop in the doorway to his bedroom, leaning against the door frame, and indulge myself watching him. He's naked, the sheet draped loosely around his shoulders, the bass guitar in his lap. The amplifier - yes, he's got an amplifier in his bedroom - is turned down low, but I can feel the vibrations of the low notes he's strumming alive with his fingers down to my bones. The melody _seems_ familiar, but I don't think I actually recognise it.

I stand looking at his reflection in the mirror which hangs so perfectly I can watch his half-closed eyes as he looks down at his guitar. I love catching him in moments like this - he's beautifully unselfconscious. He's beautiful. And, of course, completely unware of that fact. Quick agile fingers, strong arms, smooth chest, the graceful arc of his neck with a hollow between his collarbones where my thumb fits like I was a sculptor and he my sculpture.

My eyes travel to the reflection of his mouth - one corner lifted in a small smile - and then up to his eyes. Which are looking back at me. Caught staring, I'd be embarrassed, but he smiles wider and I can't help but smile too. He's such a loveable chipmunk.

I'm briefly appalled at what my brain can throw at me in its infatuated state. I think I'd die if anybody heard me calling him that.

I move from the doorway, walking around the end of the bed to kneel before him.

"I didn't hear you come up," he says, his smile turning a little bashful as I take his hand and kiss the inside of his wrist. I love his hands. His fingers shred my soul every time he plays and then they heal it back again. I want to lick those fingers; I can practically feel my tongue curling around them, but I rein in the impulse and decide to indulge in my little fixation later.

"I didn't want to disturb you," I say, raising my eyes. I can see that _he_ sees that what I really want is to give head to each and every of his fingers and I'd be annoyed with myself for being so transparent. Except it's him and I don't mind. I want him to see, if only because he's still bemused that someone would be so obsessed with his hands. I remember our first time: I was finally free to show my deep and abiding appreciation for his palms and he was completely surprised by my little oral act of worship. I can't play an instrument to save my life, but I know how to cherish skills like his. By the time I finished with his hands, his eyes were glazed and he was a breath away form coming. Very satisfying reaction and since then he lets me do what I will. Besides, he seems to have a similar thing for my neck, so we're even.

"You didn't." He carefully puts the bass away. "I finished the basic line for Johnny's new tune last night."

"And you had another idea while coming out of bath." I know him well enough to know it's true.

He gives me a one-shouldered shrug and a crooked smile.

It suddenly strucks me why the melody I heard him playing seemed faintly familiar. Johnny gave me the tape with the guitar part last week.

"I've already got lyrics for it," I say excitedly, moving closer and watch his face light up.

"Brilliant."

He cups the back of my head and his fingers slip into my hair. I love the sensation and moving even closer, I put my arms around his waist and raise my face for a kiss. Which he obligingly gives, his lips opening and letting my tongue dart in for a taste.

I can tell he hasn't had his morning cigarette yet. I can only taste faint traces of mint toothpaste. I think he's trying to cut down his smoking. Is it because I used to tell him - up until recently and not so jokingly - that kissing him is like kissing an ashtray? And then it hits me that it's probably it. Probably exactly it. Not trying to sound like an egomaniac, but I know he'd do a lot for me and that's so... sweet.

Still kissing, we move further up on the bed - him falling on his back, me falling on top of him. Him fully naked, me fully clothed. I don't mind that much because it's _his_ body I'm interested in. I've never thought of myself as an overly sexual person. I've never really thought of myself as _sexual_ to tell the truth, but there's something - a need I would have never susupected within myself - to touch, to caress this man. So I do.

And he, in turn, tugs at my shirt imaptiently.

"Too many clothes, as usual," I hear him mutter into my neck. He pulls me up a little higher and wriggles in an attempt to unbutton my shirt.

"No problem making a striptease on stage, and by the way you have no idea how distracting _that_ is--"

"Is it?" I ask, slightly surprised.

"Hmpf," I hear in answer and then he continues, "And here I have to wrestle you out of your clothes every single time."

This time the grumbling comes somewhere from the vicinity of my chest.

"Not true." I gasp because he's licking my nipple.

"True," he says and I silently agree. It is true, but the fact is I'm a little self-conscious when we're like this. I know there's really no reason, if the fans' reactions (and his words as well, maybe especially his words) are anything to go by, but I really can't help it. On-stage it's a different world, different reality and those people are strangers.

"All right," I concede, gasping again because now he's sucking that nipple and then I feel his teeth gently close around the nub of flesh.

"But you love it," I manage to say before he carefully bites and I shudder, barely holding back a moan.

"I do." He grins up at me and then expertly flips us over so I'm on my back with him hovering above me.

The sunlight coming from the window, shines into his bleached hair, making it almost glow like a halo. The expression on his face, though, is a rather far cry from being very angel-like. He's eyeing me with gratifying hunger and I just know what he'll do next. He lowers his head to nuzzle my neck and then his tongue travels from the base of my throat up to my ear. I comb his hair with my fingers and close my eyes as he starts to suck the skin just below my ear.

"Ah, Andy," I squirm a little as he starts biting me gently. "You do remember we've got photo session later today, don't you?"

I love what he's doing, but I don't particularly fancy the whole nation seeing my love bites. NME would have a field day with that.

He huffs impatiently - a puff of warm breath on my skin - but moves lower to nip my collarbone. I wonder if he derives some atavistic pleasure from biting me and the question is out of my mouth before I even realise.

He stops and looks at me like he can't quite believe what I've just said. Well, now I can't believe it either. Then he rolls his eyes and goes back to gnawing on my shoulder.

"You and your big words," he mutters, but I can hear a smile and, I dare say, fondness in his voice,

Yes, me and my big words, but now - grateful that he didn't laugh in my face - I'm actually curious.

"Atavistic means--" I begin because, well, some people don't know what 'atavistic' means.

"I know what it means," he interrupts me and bites my shoulder. Hard. Ouch. "But you talk to much."

He unbuckles my belt, unbuttons my jeans and makes a quick job of divesting me of the lower portion of my garments entirely.

"If you can still string two words together, I'm not doing this properly."

He puts his hand, palm up, practically right in my face.

"Lick," he orders.

I do what he says, flushing a little at my own eagerness and the tone of his voice. It's quite embarrassing, but I like it when he gets bossy with me.

And then he takes us both in his hand - slicked with my saliva - and all coherent thought leaves the building. He moans and I clutch at his hips - most likely leaving bruises - as he strokes us, his grip perfectly measured. It's driving me completely out of my mind. I try to keep my eyes open, I love seeing him like this: gasping and looking at me with such raw hunger. But then he adds a little twist and I'm gone. I wrap my legs around his hips, pull him to me and it's a matter of seconds before I come. He moves his hand faster and then he's coming too and it's wet and messy and utterly satisfying.

He collapses on top of me and we lie together, catching our breaths. We're sticky with sweat and semen, but I don't really mind and neither does he, apparently - he doesn't move anywhere. He nuzzles my cheek and I turn my head so we could kiss properly.

When he finally releases my mouth, I reach up to touch his face; his cheek, the bridge of his nose, the shell of his ear where my fingers briefly toy with his earring. He closes his eyes as, with my thumb, I smooth one elegant eyebrow. Which he then quirks at me. He looks down at the mess between us and wrinkles his nose playfully.

"Oh look, I think I need another bath," he says with a grin. "Fancy coming?"

I huff out a laugh as he pulls me to my feet. We stumble to the bathroom and I think that this moment - however strange it may sound - is one of the moments that will stay with me for years. Memory's snapshot of a perfect time.


End file.
